Reality
by LapsusStili
Summary: Just sneakin’ a peek behind closed doors. GSR


Rating: K

Spoilers: None

Category: General, hints of romance

Disclaimers: Does anyone actually read these disclaimers? Hello…anyone?

Summary: Just sneakin' a peek behind closed doors… GSR.

Author's Note: Something a little different from my usual style. A narrative of what I think could be…

* * *

**Reality**

_by Lapsus Stili_

* * *

It's quiet. Only the low hum of the air conditioner breaches the silence here in the living room of the townhouse. A muted glow from the relentless daylight fighting its way in around the edges of the blinds softens everything, graying the surroundings. The semi-darkness holds the secrets of a life. 

On the edge of the coffee table is a magazine, flipped open to an article of interest, waiting to be read. Gardening, not forensics. The TV remote is wedged between the sofa cushions, barely visible unless you look from just the right angle. Someone is bound to unexpectedly find it later when they take a seat.

Across the room, a light jacket hangs lop-sided over the back of a dining chair, one sleeve puddling on the slate floor. A capital "C" and an "I" can be seen on the back, the missing "S" hidden in the folded fabric between them. On the table, photos are scattered… a highschool classroom, a teacher lying prone with his skull bashed in on one side, a baseball bat. Blood, blood, more blood. Another day, another case, another file brought home at the end of an already too long shift.

In the air, the light aroma of a high quality coffee still lingers. The pot is off, its contents cooled by now, waiting to be emptied out and replaced by a fresh batch. But not yet. Not now. Now is the time for sleeping. And so it waits.

Down the hall are the combination guest-room/personal zoo on the right and the washroom on the left. It's darker here in the corridor. Less of the rogue sunrays can reach this recessed area. A strip of yellow-whiteness bleeds from under the right door. The curtains in that room have obviously been left open. Biorhythms. The inhabitants here require the changing cycle of day and night, and so the sun is welcomed. Another closed door waits at the end of the hallway. The door to the master bedroom… the bedroom of the master. No light twinkles from beneath this portal though. There is darkness beyond it… biorhythms be damned.

On the other side of this last door, we find the human element of the household, shrouded in even murkier dimness than the rest of the house. Until 2 months ago, this door always stood open. Now it is closed to provide privacy to the occupants, though privacy from emptiness seems somewhat irrelevant. Habits. Habits die hard. After 4 years of keeping her bedroom door closed in college, Sara had never felt comfortable slumbering with a gaping threshold, even after all this time had passed. Even when she lived alone in her numerous apartments since those dorm days. When Sara's bedroom and Gil's bedroom became one and the same, an open door was simply not an option.

Beyond this barrier, the sounds change somewhat. The closed door mutes everything from the rest of the home, but a new rasp carries in this space. It's rhythmic. Steady. One might expect the light snoring to be coming from the right side of the rumpled bed, the side where Gil lies on his back with one foot poking out from under the black sheet that covered them. It is, in fact, drifting from the slightly parted lips of his fiancé. She's curled in a ball on her side, facing her partner. Her chestnut hair is scattered over her pillow. A wisp of it had stolen across her cheek during her slumber to cling to her mouth, stuck there with a bit of drool.

Between them lies an empty strip of bed. A chasm. A no-man's land of lovers. It is bridged only by their joined hands. Entwined fingers. His surprisingly as soft as hers, after years of delicate lab work and marinating daily in an endless supply of latex gloves. Every now and then, a set of fingers would twitch. A dream perhaps or just a response to the cool air. Regardless, the other hand instinctively gave a little squeeze in response. Neither woke.

Early on in their relationship, the pair discovered that the romantic notion of sleeping wrapped around each other yielded better results on paper than in the flesh. While it may seem like every couple's ideal, there was simply no way that these two could manage it. In Sara's own words, Gil is a friggin' human furnace. Roasting hot. Damn near sears her skin. And so a new habit of falling asleep holding hands was born. Adopted. Cherished.

They do not spend every waking moment in the throes of passion… do not fill their days with gushing romance to make up for lost time. Gil did not become a vegetarian. Sara did not develop a maternal bond with his insects. They keep his townhouse because it's bigger and paid for. They keep her furniture because it's comfy and makes their house a home. They are no more secretive nor vocal about their love life than any of their friends.

This is their love.

This is their life.

This is their reality.

* * *


End file.
